


Wordplay

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bondage, Crossword Puzzles, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-03
Updated: 2011-06-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 01:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sunday crossword: not really his area.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wordplay

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Игра слов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/559182) by [Sellaginella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sellaginella/pseuds/Sellaginella)



“Four minutes, Sherlock. I was gone for _four minutes_.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t look up from his laptop screen. “Waste of time.”

John set the mug of tea down on the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary, and a few drops sloshed over the rim. “I don’t care,” he said in irritation as he dabbed at them. “I _enjoy_ doing the crossword. We can’t all be geniuses. I look forward to the Sunday puzzle all week.”

“It would have taken you all day. I simply finished it for you to remove the distraction. It’s not even a cryptic, John. You barely need complex reasoning skills to do these things. Dull.” He took a sip from the tea John had given him. “You may as well be doing the jumble. Really, why you would bother— where are you going?”

“Out,” John gritted through clenched teeth as he shrugged into his coat, “to get a new paper so I can _do my crossword._ ”

“We’re out of biscuits,” Sherlock called after him as the door slammed.

//

“One term.”

John looked up from the paper, putting his pen down. “What’s that?”

“What Hoover, Taft, and Carter each had. Thirty-seven across. The answer is ‘one term.’” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward. “You move your lips when you’re thinking, did you know?”

John closed his eyes in a grimace, rubbing his forehead. “What— how do you even know who they are?”

“I had a case. Murdered American history teacher, here on an exchange. I thought it might be relevant.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t.” Sherlock turned back to the microscope in front of him, using a pipette to place a drop of foul-smelling liquid on the slide. John could smell it from his desk across the room.

“And you didn’t delete it?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I did. They’re _that easy_ , John.”

“Meanwhile, the solar system— Never mind. Right. Just let me do this in peace, would you?“

//

John tapped the pen against his teeth. “Come on, Sherlock. You should get this one. Eleven down: ‘Where blood vessels enter an organ.’”

“ _John._ ” Sherlock’s voice was low and cracked with strain. “ _Christ_ , this is—“

“Five letters,” John said, glancing at him. Sherlock was spread naked on his bed, wrists trapped by two sets of cuffs Sherlock had pilfered from the Yard, ankles secured with soft ties. A silicone ring was nestled tight at the base of his cock, keeping him hard. Despite his best efforts Sherlock was writhing slowly, and when he lifted his hips John could see the end of the vibrator nudging his prostate.

John twisted the remote back to the lowest setting with a sigh of disappointment, and the hum from the vibrator slowed. “Concentrate,” he said, and Sherlock glared at him. It had already been forty-five minutes, and they were scarcely halfway through the clues. “‘Barely need complex reasoning,’ my arse.”

“You try—unf,” Sherlock began, then broke off as a fresh ripple of sensation moved through him. John flicked the remote back up to the second setting. “ _Hilum_ ,” he hissed. John filled in the letters carefully as Sherlock moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat stood on his chest and gathered in the hollow of his throat.

“Very good,” John said brightly, trying to ignore the mounting pressure of his own arousal. “Oh, here’s one you should definitely get. Twelve letters. ‘New.’”

Sherlock’s fingers clenched and unclenched several times before he collected himself enough to answer. “That’s it? Just— _oh._ ” John watched a ripple work its way through Sherlock’s abdomen and shifted in his chair, glad the other man still had his eyes closed.

“The third letter is ‘P’.”

Sherlock groaned, a low, broken sound. “ _John_. Christ, I— _ah_ — I can’t.” He was looking at John now, his eyes pleading. “I can’t. _Please.”_

“Giving up already?” John’s gripped the desk, white-knuckled, trying to keep the want out of his voice. “Are you ready to stipulate that this does require some concentration, then?”

“Am I ready to _stipulate_ ….” Another moan as he shuddered. “Yes, John, _anything,_ just—“

John all but threw the paper aside in his haste.

//

Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes, head against John’s shoulder on the pillow. “Experimental.”

“What’s that?” John opened one eye to squint at him, still too hazy to catch on immediately.

“For ‘new.’ The answer. Experimental.”

He was right. John would write it in the grid, when he had the energy.

Later.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a silly little fill written for a (now lost) prompt at sherlockbbc_fic; I just realized I'd never posted it.
> 
> The actual clues here are straight out of a NYT crossword from, I believe, back in January. Credit where it's due and all that.


End file.
